Jack and the Changeling
by Sarah-neko
Summary: A short story in which Jack must enter a rather dangerous fairyland to help his Scottish friend.


_Author's Note: I haven't written any fanfic for a long time, having apparently lost my muse. This is something that came into my head for no good reason. It's pretty feeble compared to how I used to write but it's possible someone will enjoy it. This is the first 'Samurai Jack' thing I've written. Readers will doubtless detect heavy influences from the Discworld and the Labyrinth. A one-shot._

The Painted Pony was a small inn cut into the bank of what had once been a major river, before an ambitious damming project reduced it to a trickle. Once water traffic had provided a lively clientele but these days it mostly did business serving drinks and meals to workers from the Aku Energy hydroelectric plant at the dam. On this blazingly hot day, the riverbed was dry and cracked except for a few patches of unattractive mud along the middle. The Pony was a cool, shadowy haven. The bar was lined with hydro workers getting in their lunchtime pints, a daily rush that had begun at the usual time and distracted the staff from an unusual guest, a traveller.

If the landlord and manager had been there, they would have long since called the authorities, but as he was on vacation a tense debate had been going on between the senior and junior barmaids about whether the man in white was actually the one from the wanted posters, and if so, whether it was right to squeal on him, especially as he was much better-looking than the posters let on.

'He doesn't _look_ bad or dangerous,' the senior barmaid had said doubtfully. 'But that is a wicked-looking sword. I wouldn't like to be responsible if he got it out in here and made trouble.'

'It might not even be him,' the junior barmaid, who was privately quite sure that it was, had argued. 'In which case we'd look like a pair of silly excitable females calling it in. Let's just keep an eye on him and not do anything unless _he_ does something to make us sure.' At that point the lunch regulars had started to come in, so she had won for the time being.

Currently the man in white was doing nothing more objectionable than sitting in a quiet corner drinking tea (he had requested a pot of hot water and put his own leaves in) and rather apprehensively eating the hot mince pie that was the inn's chief offering for lunch. Rather than attacking it with a knife and fork, he had peeled the top crust off and was eating the beef-and-gravy filling with a spoon.

As the lunch rush began to quieten down, another stranger entered the inn, stooping to get in under the low lintel. Both barmaids stiffened up and exchanged nervous glances, since he was definitely a feature of one of the older wanted posters they'd seen, and the police artist had not quite done justice to his intimidating appearance. He was a hulking brute with red hair gathered from a bald crown into a rat's-tail, and a hole in his bristly face that you couldn't really call a mouth; it demanded the word 'maw.' The huge, ragged white teeshirt and the kilt stained with mud, blood and mystery yellow stuff made only a minor impression compared with the claymore slung on his back and the fact that he appeared to have customised an AK-47 into a prosthetic leg.

He looked up and down the room with a beetle-browed frown, then brightened as his eye lit on someone and he bellowed 'OI! Laddie!' The laddie was apparently the man in white, who looked up with a start and then waved him over.

'Wha's tha? Whit're ye flappin' yer hand for?' The hulking man imitated the gesture, managing to make it look pansy and limp-wristed, although it had originally been fairly brisk and business-like.

'It means come over here. I am pleased to see you, my friend!'

'Aye, A' heard rumours ye were in the area and thought A'd try an' catch ye if there was time. Summat big's come up!' The Scotsman elbowed and bellied his way through the assemblage to deposit himself at his friend's corner table. The junior and senior barmaids had a brief, non-verbal argument which the junior barmaid lost. Her superior disappeared to the back room - and the telephone - with alacrity.

'What is it?' the man in white enquired, adding, with a touch of trepidation, 'I trust your wife is in no trouble.'

'Och, no, she's grand! Better! Ye'll niver guess.'

'Then you had better tell me, my friend.'

'Yew... are lukin' a'... a DADDY.' The Scotsman folded his beefy arms across his chest and looked extremely proud.

The man in white was momentarily nonplussed. 'Your wife is expecting a baby?' he hazarded.

'She's had it! A' just got the call this mornin'.' The Scotsman produced a cellular phone with a tartan faceplate from his sporran and waggled it in the man in white's face. He seemed none the wiser for seeing it. 'It's the best news! A've tae get hame right awa'. An' when A' heard ye were abou', A' said tae mesel', get ahold ae him an' bring 'im tae the kursnin'!'

'My warmest congratulations, of course, but I am not quite sure your wife would be pleased to see me,' the man in white said uneasily.

'Nay nay nay nay, she's forgot all abou' tha'. A' told her ye were only goin' tae say ye thocht she was too _tall _for the wee door. On account of where ye come from, all the lasses are sae verra wee. Ye were just a bit overawed by sich a statuesque specimen of womanhood.' He lowered his voice confidentially. 'Now A' know she's beautiful, but no' everyone appreciates a full-figured gel an' she does get a wee bit sensitive, puir love.'

'I never wished to offend her. If you are sure my presence will not annoy her, I would be honoured to attend your - what is a kursning?'

'It's when we gie the babby her name, an' pu' charms on her tae keep her safe. An' if ye'll do us the honour, A'd like ye tae be her goodfather.'

'What would that involve?'

'Why, ye just stand up when we're namin' her an' say ye'll be a good influence an' help her grow up richt an' be a pain in Aku's arse, an' after tha' maybe just a card on her birthday an' a buke token, or some sweeties an' a dolly for Hogmanay, tha' sortae thing. It maks ye sortae like her sponsor. Someone besides her parents who'll luke ou' for her. Ye dinnae actually have tae do much.'

'I would be happy to do so. It is a girl, then?'

'Aye, a bonny wee girl wi' her mammy's pretty eyes.'

'And - er - have you chosen her name?' The man in white was clearly coming to the end of his repertoire of baby-related questions.

'Aye, Magrat!'

'That is... pretty...'

'Aye, an' a quin's name an' all.'

'I... did not think this was a multiple birth.'

'Quin, qui-i-in! Like the Quin of Scots! Ye daftie.' The Scotsman burst into gravelly laughter and smacked the man in white on the back with sufficient force to make him drop his spoon.

'I am surprised to meet you so far from home at such an important time for your family,' the man in white said, regaining his composure.

'Aye, A' wouldna' done it if A'd known she'd be a wee bit early. Thocht A'd be back tae the Highlands in plenty ae time. A'm just here on a wee mission - ye knaw this hydro dam here powers a dirty great evil mad science complex fer Aku's evil mad scientists?'

'No...'

'Well it does! Which is why we'd best be movin' on, if ye've finished yer pie... ma wee bomb'll be goin' off in abou' five minutes.'

Which was why, when a detachment of Aku's bug-bots arrived ten minutes later, they found only a smoking ruin, a gushing river, and a lot of startled people sheltering in a riverbank pub with the water roaring over its doorstep.

'This is the type of thing that got a price put on your head, isn't it?'

'Aye, but hurry up, laddie! Nae time tae gawk!'

'You know...' The man in white quickened his pace to keep up with the rapidly jogging Scotsman. 'People call me Jack.'

'Is tha' yer name?'

'No, but nor is Laddie.' Although both were running quite fast, they spoke without panting.

'Well A' can't be havin' wi' that.'

'What is wrong with "Jack"?'

'Nothin', except tha' ma name's Jock. Jack an' Jock, it sounds daft. Oo, here come Jack an' Jock. Throw somethin'. Nay, laddie y'are an' laddie ye'll stay.'

'It sounds like a dog's name,' Jack complained. 'Jack is the name of a warrior, a hero, which I aspire to be.'

'Nothin' wrong wi' havin' a dog's name, as ma auntie Fido will tell ye. Now keep up, ye wee jessie! Hey... we'll call ye Jessie, will we, stead ae Jack?'

'Laddie will do.'

The bracing, if damp, air of the Highlands greeted them and clearly put new life into the Scotsman (who Jack found he could not think of as Jock, after all). He picked up his pace and picked up Jack to boot, slinging him over his shoulder, despite his protests, for the final leg of the trip. He was making, not for the loch-side castle Jack remembered visiting before, but a good-sized farmhouse sort of structure on a hillside. Although his view from the Scotsman's shoulder was unpleasantly bouncing (the brawny shoulder jogging into his midriff wasn't doing his breathing any good, either) he was pleased again to see what a lush, wild and beautiful - if damp - country this was.

The Scotsman burst into the house and bellowed 'A'M HAME!' Jack squirmed to look over his shoulder and observed that the front door let directly into a large kitchen and... well, eating, not dining, room. An old woman in black was smoking a pipe by the massive fireplace and a thin girl with excruciatingly red pigtails was in the midst of knocking down a large quantity of bread dough on a scrubbed and floured wooden slab table. There was not much time to take this in before a voice from above boomed out.

'GE' YER ARSE UP HERE!'

'Comin' darlin'!' The Scotsman barrelled joyfully up a flight of stairs at one side of the kitchen, causing even more unpleasant jouncing for Jack, whom he appeared to have partly forgotten he was carrying, and who was beginning to feel he had lost his dignity. The Scotsman ran up and down the upstairs corridor flinging doors open more or less at random until he darted into a large, whitewashed bedroom where his mountainous wife was propped up on pillows in a vast four-poster bed. Actually, Jack thought as he was slung off to land in an armchair, where he made an enemy of a small brown cat that had been sleeping there, she was not quite as mountainous as he had remembered. Perhaps his memory had exaggerated out of sheer terror of being trampled. She was still built on vast, solid lines, and he found that any time one tried to envision this particular couple engaged in what they must have had to do to obtain a baby by natural means, the mind slid smoothly away to some other subject out of a sense of self-preservation. He had once seen elephants mating, as a boy in Africa. That had been disturbing enough.

The Scotsman had flung himself to his knees at the bedside and taken possession of one of his wife's hands, which he was avidly kissing in between protestations of how much he loved her, how proud of her he was, and how all-round super happy she had made him. She was talking across him, apparently without reference to anything he said, and berating him for running all over the place like a gormless ninny getting into trouble and not being there to boil water for the midwife like a proper husband should. After an apparently pre-arranged interval of this, they both looked up, beamed at each other and hugged extravagantly.

'Oh, an' ye brought yer wee friend too, tha's nice,' the Scotsman's wife observed placidly. 'Now! D'ye want tae see this babby or wha'?' She disengaged herself from her husband's clinging arms and leaned over to a bassinet standing at the other side of the bed, from which she drew a bundle of grey blankets that might have had a baby somewhere in the middle of it. She put this into the arms of the Scotsman and pulled back some folds to let him see the inner child. He promptly burst into tears.

'Is she all right?' Jack asked, startled and concerned. He got out of the chair and hurried over to look, hoping he was not going to see a pitiful little deformity.

The surprising thing about Magrat was that she did, in fact, have pretty eyes (nothing like her mother's). Apart from a certain squashed and crumpled look which Jack thought must be common to all new babies, she was quite prepossessing, with large, bright, grey eyes, a rosy mouth and a pale complexion, but healthy pink cheeks. There was not much hair on her head but what was visible was a vivid golden-red. She gazed at the three large faces hovering over her with calm incomprehension, and burped softly.

'She looks fine,' said Jack, confused. 'A very healthy, sound baby.'

'Aye!' wailed the Scotsman. 'She's so-o-o BEAUTIFUL!'

'Well, haud yer blubberin' or ye'll get her going! She's no sae beautiful when she's screamin' her head off,' his wife admonished him, taking the bundle back and dandling it while tutting at him reprovingly.

'Sorry muffin,' the Scotsman said repentently, looking around for something to wipe his nose on and settling for his own arm hair. 'Bu' she _is_ bonny, isn't she laddie?' He appealed to Jack, who was trying not to look too aghast at the nose-wiping.

'She is a child to be proud of,' he said. 'I congratulate you both - _omedetou gozaimasu_.'

'Aye, well,' said the Scotsman's wife, appearing mollified. 'A' thought she was a wee bit puny, but we'll soon feed her up.'

'Ma friend's agreed tae be her goodfather, if tha's all richt wi' you, darlin',' the Scotsman put in.

'Oh aye - an' does he knaw what tha' means, the heathen?'

'A've explained it all tae him, buttercup, an' be fair, we're heathens too.'

'So we are, A' s'pose. Well then, laddie, yer job'll start tomorra. Tha' oul' fart in the elk's skull'll be round in the mornin' tae do his mumbo-jumbo. Then the witch fra' _ma_ side ae the family'll do the kursnin' proper. Ye don't have any objections tae tha', A' hope?'

'Of course not.' Jack realised he did not quite know what his own people would do for the naming of a new baby; there were some elements of his own culture on which his knowledge was still only that of a small boy. Apart from a general idea that you went Shinto for birth and life and Buddhist for death, he felt quite ignorant. He decided that saying an appropriate prayer by himself would probably be sufficient, and if not, hopefully the druid and the witch between them could pick up the slack. He thought these things in a somewhat distracted manner, as the Scotsman had seized this opportunity to give him a thorough hugging, which made blue and black blobs flash behind his eyes and caused an alarming creaking of his ribs. He was beginning to be accustomed to the fierce emphasis with which his friend seemed to like to express any emotion, but it was still physically disconcerting to have one expressed right at you.

'Pu' him down, dear, he'd better hold the babby.'

'Oh - no, I - I have no experience with small children, I would be afraid of -' She grabbed his hands as he held them up to protest and pushed them into shape.

'Don't talk rubbish. Here. Pu' yer hand under her neck an' hold her heid. Tha's wha' really matters, just don't let the wee heid wobble. Now ye transfer her heid tae the cruik ae yer arm. See how neat it fits there? An' keep yer ither hand under her back, an' luke. Yer holdin' the babby.'

'A' want tae hold the babby,' said the Scotsman, enviously.

'Ye can hold her again after he's had his turn.'

'She's half mine, ye ken.'

'A' should hope so. There ye go, laddie, tha's no so bad, is it?'

Jack stared at the baby, small, warm and light in his arms. She seemed to stare back for a moment, before her newborn eyes crossed and then wandered.

'Hello, Magrat-chan,' he said quietly. She closed her eyes and slept.

'Aah, she feels safe,' said her mother.

'She'd feel safe wi' her daddy,' said the Scotsman sulkily. 'An' since when are you the expert at holdin' babbies? Just before A' went awa' ye were in a panic abou' it.'

'Aye, well, A' practised wi' the cat, and shut yer gob. Ye may as well let him hold her, laddie, there'll be no livin' wi' him otherwise.'

'Aye, render under Caesar,' said the Scotsman, taking the baby over. 'Hello!' he chortled. 'Hello, me wee Mag! A'm yer daddy! We're goin' tae have fun!'

Matters were so well in hand for the kirsning and associated festivities that it seemed all Jack and the Scotsman were required to do was praise the baby and not get in the way. After the Scotsman had dandled and petted Magrat until she became grumpy and fussy with over-stimulation, they were shooed out of the presence chamber and given a meal in the kitchen, which consisted mostly of big lumps of meat. At least it was not haggis.

'Do you ever have fish?' Jack asked hopefully.

'There's a guid stream for salmon over the hill tae the north,' the Scotsman said, picking a bone clean.

'I _love_ salmon,' Jack said. 'Will it inconvenience anyone if I go fishing?'

'Course not. If ye catch anythin' decent we can bung it on ice an' have it at the party afterwards. A've got some fishin' gear round here somewhere, no' tha' A've used it in a wee while...'

It was a relief to be left to himself beside the stream. The Scotsman had no interest in hanging about with a friend when there was a baby daughter for him to gurgle at and bathe and change and talk gibberish to. Jack enjoyed both the solitude and the excellent fishing, which yielded two impressively large young freshwater salmon and a fierce-looking trout within a surprisingly small time. He splashed about landing and cleaning them, with the westering afternoon sun warm on his back, generally feeling as if he was on holiday.

When he brought the fish home he asked permission of the pigtailed girl, whose responsibility it seemed to be, to use the kitchen, where to his own surprise he found some rice and other ingredients which were close to what he wanted. When the Scotsman came wandering happily down to report that Magrat had just sicked up some milk very cutely, he found Jack preparing to eat an approximation of salmon nigiri.

'Wha's _tha'_?'

'Fish.'

'It's _raw_!'

'It is very tasty this way. Try some?'

'No' on yer life!' The Scotsman backed away from the fragment held out between chopsticks as if it could lunge out and bite him. 'D'ye have a death wish?'

'It is quite safe to eat when properly prepared,' Jack said, a little wounded, 'and I do not criticise haggis.'

'There's nothin' _to_ criticise! Tha's lovely wholesome food, an' this is - this is _raw fish_!'

There was a moment of stand-off. Following a slight trouble-making impulse, Jack darted the chopsticks at the Scotsman for an instant. He flinched.

'Ew! Tak' it awa'!'

'Well, when I have eaten it all it will no longer bother you.' He returned to his meal.

'A' knew ye had some funny ideas abou' clothes an' music an' a respectable size for a sword, but crivens, laddie, tha's just not _natural.'_

'Raw food is the _most_ natural.' He let the slight on his clothes pass; he had never quite understood how a man wearing a skirt could say with a straight face that he, Jack, was running around in a nightgown.

The pigtailed girl, who was watching the show and shelling peas, smothered a laugh.

'Ye're no' gonnae feed wee Magrat tha' muck, are ye?'

'She is surely too young for solid food.'

'Aye, but A' didnae realise ye might corrupt her tastes as she grows older.'

'If Magrat travels much, she may find, as I have, that it is often necessary to suppress a revulsion to foreign food.'

'Ye just enjoy givin' me crap, don't ye?'

'In my own quiet way.'

Jack slept that night in a large, comfortable - if damp - feather-bed. He was vaguely aware of the brown cat, which seemed to have forgiven him for getting thrown on it, coming and going as he drifted off. Jack had developed a tendency, mostly a useful one, of waking several times during the night. When he was sleeping rough in a savage place like a forest or a city underpass, he would wake, check his surroundings, ensure that all appeared quiet and safe, take steps to protect himself if it did not, and settle down again, so that his nights were more a sequence of refreshing naps than fully devoted to sleep. Tonight was different; he slept so deeply that it was almost unpleasant. His dreams had recurring themes of trying to wake or rise from beneath a weight and being unable to do so. There was a feeling of pressure on the back of his neck and in his chest, as if he was unable to straighten out and breathe deeply. He resisted feebly, but was pressed down and under into darkness again. He was finally woken not long after sunrise by a terrible scream.

The Scotsman's wife was a woman naturally inclined to screaming but Jack found you could tell the difference between her ordinary conversational screams and ones which indicated genuine trouble. This was the second kind, a scream of utter fear and misery which made him bolt out of bed and race down the hall in a dishevelled state to see what on earth could have happened. He passed the pigtailed girl, who he had found out was a cousin named Mhairi, struggling to pull on a dressing gown, and threw open the door to the family's bedroom.

The Scotsman's wife was bent over the bassinet at the bedside, her back hiding the inside of it from anyone else's view. She was not screaming any more but her back was heaving as if she was breathing very hard. The Scotsman had fallen out of bed and tangled himself in the blankets at the initial alarm; he was just struggling up as Jack entered, crying out 'Wha's wrong? Wha's wrong wi' Magrat?' in a terrified, half-angry voice.

'No-nothin',' his wife said, sounding hoarse and strange. 'A' - A' gave mesel' a fright. When A' woke up an' luked a' her she seemed sae still A' thocht fer a minute she wasnae breathin'. But it's all righ'. It's all righ', she's breathin' grand.' She turned to face them, still screening the bassinet with her body. 'Can we - can ye help me out, love? A' just need tae go tae the loo an' A'm no too steady on me feet yet.'

The Scotsman, looking confused and suspicious, gave her his arm and supported her to walk out of the room, Jack and Mhairi backing out ahead of them. Everyone knew there was still something wrong; the woman's eyes were clear witness to that. In the corridor, with the bedroom door shut behind them, she clung to her husband and shook, her normally ruddy complexion sickly pale.

'What has happened?' Jack asked her.

'Tha's no ma' babby,' she said in a whisper.

'Wha'-'

'Tha's no Magrat in the crib,' she interrupted her bewildered husband. 'Tis a changeling.' His face fell, with a slack, sick terror that seriously alarmed Jack.

'What does that mean?' he asked.

'Sometimes,' said Mhairi, folding her arms nervously, 'the star people tak' babbies awa'. They leave an 'orrible oul' one of their own in yer babby's place, an' it pretends it's a real child an' ye have tae tak' care of it. An yer own babby's in fairyland, bein' made intae one of 'em, an' ye'll probably never see it mair.' She bit her lip. 'They always tak' the bonny ones. They covet 'em.'

'Fairies have abducted the child?' Jack was outraged. 'That is foul! I will beat your daughter's whereabouts out of the impostor with my own hands.'

'Nay, lad!' The Scotsman spared an arm from trying to comfort his wife to hold Jack back. 'Ye cannae do tha'. He's got power as it is, for no-one can say he's no the real thing. It's said if ye kill the changeling ye never get yer ane child back. He must be made tae gie himself awa', tae blaw his cover. An' we must not let him knaw _we_ knaw, or he'll niver reveal himsel'.'

'How are we to do that?' Jack asked.

'A'll get an eggshell,' said Mhairi decisively. 'An' the doin's.'

'Aye, good lass!' said the Scotsman.

'What is this for?' Jack pressed back against the wall to let Mhairi squeeze past him and run down to the kitchen.

''sa story,' the Scotsman's wife said, managing to compose herself enough to speak clearly. 'A travellin' soldier who came tae a house where there was a changeling solved the problem... he sat doon an' pretended tae mak' beer in an eggshell... an' the changeling watched him in amazement till it burst out, "A'm old, old, ever sae old, but A' niver yit saw a soldier brewin' beer in an eggshell!" An nae sooner were the words oot of his mouth than he disappeared an' the richt bonny babby was back in the cradle. Ye have tae surprise 'em, ye ken. Mak' em step oot of character.'

'Would ye do the honours, laddie?' the Scotsman asked as Mhairi came back bearing eggshell, hops and other ingredients. 'A'm no sure any of us could do it wi' a steady hand, the noo.'

'Certainly, my friend.'

Jack entered the room silently, crossed to the side of the bed where the bassinet stood, sat down on the mattress and began to lay out the bits and pieces he had been given on the nightstand. Only when he had arranged them did he look into the bassinet, having made sure his face would remain impassive. Even when he was prepared to see that little Magrat had been replaced, it was still a shock to see the ugly, wizened thing lying amid her blankets. Spindle-shanked and lantern-jawed, it regarded him from hollow, cunning old eyes.

Without a word, Jack took up the eggshell and began to add the brewing ingredients as he had been instructed. Every now and again, he spared a glance for the changeling. Its pitted face remained impassive. He tried to slow down what he was doing and make it somehow more obvious. The changeling simply stared. At length, there was nothing else he could do with the eggshell or its contents. As a last resort, he swallowed the contents of the shell like a shot of spirits, which tasted extraordinarily nasty. It stared, and nothing more.

Crushing the eggshell in his hand, he left the room and went down to the kitchen, where the family had clearly been waiting not for him to come back down, but for him to call to them that all was well. It was terrible to see the hope fading from their faces as they sat at the table.

'I am afraid that changeling may have seen a person brew beer in an eggshell before,' he said, hanging his head. 'I am very sorry. I failed you.'

'It's no yer fault,' the Scotsman said. His voice was a shadow of its normal booming self. 'It's an ould story. I suppose they're wise tae that by noo. Perhaps... perhaps we can surprise it some ither way...'

Jack sat down and they all thought hard. After a while Mhairi got up and made up the fire, and prepared tea and toast. No-one felt very hungry, but they forced themselves to chew and swallow.

Word was hastily sent round that the kursning had to be delayed due to ill-health. Jack and the Scotsman spent most of the morning making futile efforts to surprise the changeling. It was a wretchedly blasé creature, which did not bat an eye at Jack's display of how to 'jump good.' Nor did it consider eating raw fish particularly unusual, which the Scotsman muttered out of its hearing proved conclusively that it was no child of his. The Scotsman recited McGonagall's ode to the Tay Bridge and Jack pretended to think it was quite good. This elicited a sort of stifled snort which they suspected could have been laughter, but nothing more. The Scotsman tried reciting a limerick so starlingly dirty that Jack had to ask him what the last line meant, but that did not even raise an eyebrow. They both felt stupid, and the whole thing was getting beyond a joke. The Scotsman was getting close to throwing a fit in his frustration and worry. In desperation, they put the changeling to bed, left Mhairi to watch it and went for a walk outside. The Scotsman's wife did not feel able to walk far, so they stopped and rested at the top of a small rise near the house. There, the parents sat down on stones and howled. Jack sat down on the grass and felt simultaneously depressed and embarrassed. He could not understand why anyone would _want_ to scream and cry like that. Surely it only made them feel worse. His every impulse was to find something he could _do_ and do the hell out of it, but so far he had been quite useless.

When the Scotsman had cried himself out for a bit and was wiping his face on his teeshirt, Jack turned to him and asked, 'Mhairi said the baby had been taken to fairyland. Is it possible for any of us to reach fairyland and try to take her back?'

'Tha's wha' A've been thinkin' A' shall have tae do,' the Scotsman said.

'No, please,' said his wife, raising her face from her hands. 'A' may have lost ma' babby. A' can't bear to lose ma' man as well.'

'Is it so dangerous?' Jack asked. 'I have only met one fairy, but she did not appear fearsome.'

'Whit kind ae fairy was tha'?'

'A... little cute pink wish-granting one,' Jack said sheepishly.

'These are the _ither_ kind,' the Scotsman said darkly. 'They tak' wha' they want. There are stories whaur they're noble an' beautiful, but mesel' A've never known 'em tae be anythin' but exploitative, practic'ly psychopathic mongrels.'

'A lot like aristocracy,' his wife added, blowing her nose. 'No offence. An' it's the royalty, the Faerie Quin, we've tae worry about. It's she that tak's the babbies. She cannae have her own, ye ken, an' she loves beautiful things, but she cannae love them like a mammy. An' even before ye could hope tae reach an' challenge her, there are sae many tricks an' traps in fairyland. A' cannae let ye go, darlin'.' She clung to his arm mournfully.

'He should not have to,' Jack said, coming to a decision and rising to his feet. 'As the child's "goodfather" it clearly falls to me to help you with this. You two should remain here and comfort one another. Continue with the efforts to outsmart the changeling. They may yet bear fruit. And I will venture into fairyland and do all I can to bring your child back.'

'Tha's a lot ye're offerin', laddie,' the Scotsman said slowly. 'A' don't knaw if it's fair tae let ye do it. Ye're still no' officially her goodfather. Ye can get out.'

'I do not want to. My friends' pain is my own. I will go and find the child.' He braced himself for the hugs.

A few hours later, Jack stood with the Scotsman at the edge of an ancient stone circle. The trilithons looked black and unbelievably hard, as if at some distant past time they had melted and resolidified into something dense and unyielding even for stone.

'This is one ae the soft places,' the Scotsman said quietly, 'whaur things can pass through. Fairyland isnae exactly part ae the world. It's mair like it's alongside an' joined up at a few points. Every child in these hills knaws ye dinnae walk through the circle. When ye go, laddie, hold on tight tae yer sword. It's hard for anythin' of iron or steel tae enter there, but if ye can keep it ye'll have a weapon they all fear. Above all, while ye bide there, no matter how hungry or thirsty ye get, no matter how tempted ye are, tak' nothin' of theirs tae eat or drink, or even if ye do manage tae leave... well...'

'What will happen?'

'Time in fairyland is different,' the Scotsman said simply. 'An' if ye tak' their food or drink intae yer body, ye'll be bound tae their time, no' ours. Only minutes may seem tae pass on tha' side, but when ye emerged frae the circle again, years or centuries wouldae gone by... an' me wife an' A', an' everyone we knaw, would be terribly ould or deid.'

Jack shuddered. 'I have no wish to experience that twice in a lifetime. Thank you, my friend. I will remember your warning.'

'Ye may not, tha's the trouble. They ha' ways ae cloudin' yer mind, glamours an' illusions. Keep hold ae yer sword! Cold steel will keep ye safe.' He strapped onto Jack's back the sling that he would use to carry Magrat home, if he could find her. 'Go on, then. Ye're the best friend A' ever had, tae try an' do this.'

'Hold onto hope. I will return as soon as I can.' He took a deep breath, released it slowly, placed his hand firmly on the hilt of his father's sword and walked through the arch of the stones, into the circle.

There was a moment of strange dislocation as he passed through. For a moment it seemed to him that all he could see were the stones, that everything else became utterly formless. He felt a mighty wrench at his sword, startling him with its vehemence, as if some invisible creature had seized it in clawed hands and was dragging for dear life. His own grip tightened, and although the sword strained at his obi, it remained in his grasp. Then there was once again a landscape surrounding the circle, but it was a different one, strangely coloured and somehow wrong in perspective, and the Scotsman was nowhere to be seen. The pull on his sword ceased abruptly and absolutely, startling him again. He looked carefully around. There were no people in sight, but in the middle distance he could see a hill on which a silver castle stood. This seemed a likely place to find a Queen or at least to make inquiries. He started walking, carefully going between two arches rather than through one.

The weather here was warm, dry and somehow airless-feeling. The sky was a violet blue, and looked lower than he was accustomed to. It seemed to take longer to approach the castle than it should. After a time he realised vaguely that he was walking through fields, surrounded by swaying, hip-high golden corn, which seemed to have no smell. This was disappointing. He stopped in his tracks and stared dully at the golden expanse around him. He could not remember seeing this in his path when he began to walk. The heat of the sun was making him feel dazed and stupid. There was a rustling and he turned to see that a remarkably lovely woman was walking towards him. She was dressed in silk in varying shades of gold, and her black hair was long enough to sweep the ground. She held out her hand to him and smiled.

'I am looking for the Queen,' he told her. Her smile made him feel sure she would be sympathetic and helpful.

'We can go and see her together,' she said. 'I'm so glad you came. I have always been waiting for you.' She was holding his hand now. 'Tell me your name.'

For a moment, somehow, the name he had answered to as a child was on the tip of his tongue. Then he remembered himself and said 'Jack.'

'My Jack,' she repeated, and the name that had struck him as merely solid and brave was beautified by her voice. They had always known each other. They walked together for a while hand in hand before she sighed and let her head droop on his shoulder.

'What is wrong?'

'Only that I have been so lonely, and you don't hold me.'

'I'm sorry.' He stopped where he was and put his arms around her, gathering her close. Her silky hair brushed his cheek and its sweet clean smell sent a pleasant shiver up and down his back. 'I'm sorry I took so long, my darling. It was very hard to get back to you.'

'Did you bring me something?' she asked.

'I... no. I'm sorry. I don't think I _could_ bring anything... perhaps I can make something.' He felt in his sleeve for a scrap of paper.

'You did bring something,' she said, lifting her head with a smile of indescribable sweetness. She put her hands lightly on his chest, rose on her toes and kissed him warmly on the mouth. While he was surprised, it also seemed inevitable, something long awaited. She was looking up at him and smiling again; how adorable she was. 'Did you bring more than one?'

'As many as you like.' He kissed her again, lingering over it, folding his arms around her waist more tightly. She sighed happily and raised her hands to stroke his hair; he thought she smelled like olives and honey, and did not mind in the slightest when she tugged out his hairpin and ran her fingers through his hair as it settled around his shoulders. He thought he would never be able to get close enough to her. As he hugged her tighter, she made a small sound of protest.

'What's wrong? Did I hurt you?'

'No, only...' She pouted and looked down and away, then directed her gaze to his left hip, where the sword rested. 'Can't you get rid of that nasty old thing now? You don't need it any more, do you?'

He was a little taken aback at her request; it probably showed in his face.

'I would just feel so much safer,' she said.

'But it is there to protect you as well.'

'But we're safe now. Everyone is safe. And it's such a nasty old thing. Won't you please?'

He was beginning to have a strange feeling, a sort of flutter in his head. Truly, he wanted very much to do as she said, to simply get rid of the wretched thing and belong to her. He put his hand to the hilt, meaning to draw it out from his sash, scabbard and all, but his palms were wet and it slipped slightly, so that the scabbard stayed put and the sword came partly unsheathed, the exposed steel glinting in the sun. She flinched and pulled away from him.

'That was an accident - don't be afraid, darling.' He laughed, hoping she would see it was silly. 'This will never hurt you. Why don't you hold it, so that you can see?' He drew the sword and held it out to her, flat on his two palms. She backed away, putting her hands behind her back and shaking her head stubbornly.

'Please get rid of it. It's nasty. I hate it.'

The steel was very cold on his palms and the fluttering in his head was worse than ever, as if something was struggling there. He blinked, trying to clear his head. Her face looked very white, like paper. The poor thing was really scared. He felt a swell of protective affection.

'But you see, it _cannot_ hurt you-'

'Get rid of it!' Her voice was unhappy, but sharp. 'It's just a sword!'

'It is... just...' The words were like stones dropping into a deep well. It seemed to take forever but finally they struck deep, cold water. The chill in the blade was like that water. It was like being splashed in the face, startling and bracing. He remembered something about the blade.

'It is not just a sword,' he objected. 'It is a promise, a sacred duty. If I throw it away I throw away half of who I am. I would not be the man you l-' He stopped, shaking his head. 'Please. If you cannot accept the sword you cannot accept me, and I know that if you love...' His voice trailed away. 'Have we _met?'_ The cold water was coursing through him more strongly than ever and he seemed to see her through a heat haze, rippling. Her face was like paper with eyes and a mouth painted on it.

'You cannot touch it, can you?' He extended the flat of the sword towards her and she shrank back again. He understood, and it was a hateful feeling, what the fluttering had been trying to alert him to. Of course he did not know or love this woman. He had met her just now. She was enchanting him, and she was probably not human. He had completely forgotten what he was trying to do, and now it rushed back to his mind with the force of shame. He pressed his forehead to the hilt of the sword for a moment, in silent self-reproof, then sheathed it again.

'I have no desire to harm you,' he told the fairy woman, 'but I will waste no more time here.' He took the pin from her unresisting hand and walked away, gathering his hair back into its topknot. He felt angry and humiliated. What a pathetic way to be deceived, so soon after being warned... and what a sad taint on one of his favourite memories. He felt as if he would have to apologise to that girl from the field if he ever saw her again.

You will certainly not see her again if you are so foolish, he told himself sternly. Concentrate on your quest.

He was out of the cornfield now, walking over dry grass and dying brown moss, and the castle looked closer, just over a few more rises and a small river. To prove to himself that he was being more conscientious now, he checked that he still had the things the Scotsman had given him, secured in the sling or tucked into his kimono; a bottle of water and a few hard flat things called oatcakes for himself, since it was so important that he eat and drink nothing from fairyland, and another small bottle with a rubber teat attached, containing a mixture procured in haste from the Scotsman's wife's family witch. It was meant as an antidote to whatever transformative food or drink Magrat might have been given; she thought it might work, given that Magrat was still a baby and had been recently fed on her mother's milk, but could not promise anything. The actual retrieval of babies from fairyland did not seem to have much precedent.

He had been wondering for some time whether fairyland applied equally to all nations or was somehow specifically Scottish. He had his eyes well open for the various fairy creatures he had heard of as a child at home and then as a youth in his travels. There did not seem to be much life around, though. He would have expected a great buzz of insects on a hot day like this, but the fields were quiet. There was a white owl in that tree over there, wide awake at entirely the wrong time of day. Perhaps fairy owls were not nocturnal. It watched him with half-open eyes, as if he was of interest but not so _terribly_ interesting, simply the only moving object in the landscape on a dull day. The tree was heavy with dark red fruit that he did not recognise. As he got closer he could smell a strong, sweet fragrance which became cloying after a few breaths. It was a relief to walk further on and get away from its vapours. And now the owl was sitting in another wayside tree a little further along still, although he had not noticed it flying. He was beginning to wonder about that owl, but as long as it did not bother him, he decided he would not bother it. He was now walking on a fairly well defined but informal path, not paved but worn into the ground by the passage of many feet. The little river was before him now, bridged by a sequence of large flat stepping-stones. A breathtaking icy cold radiated from the water, as if in this summer landscape it were possible for a stream to run with snowmelt. He was feeling increasingly overheated and sweaty, with a disagreeable buzzing in his ears, and wished he had thought to make a sunhat before leaving the Highlands. It surely could not hurt to soak his feet for a moment, and wet his hair to cool his head. That would not be the same as drinking the water. He stepped onto the first stone and squatted down, scooping up water in his hands. As they reached towards the busily rushing surface, it grew suddenly, weirdly still. He could see a distorted reflection of himself, rippling and bulging as if in a carnival mirror. Had the river suddenly frozen, under this blazing sun? His fingertips touched the water and it was still wet, and intensely, blissfully cold. He plunged them in up to the wrist and was suddenly under the water. It was extremely confusing; he had no memory of a fall or a splash, but water was all around him, and the cold was not so pleasant; a bubble escaped his lips and he pressed them together tightly, holding onto what air he had. And looking up, he could see himself still crouching on the stone, staring down vacantly into the water like Narcissus. This Jack did not move. And the Jack in the river found that he could not move either.

I am going to drown without so much as a struggle, he thought with a dreadful clarity. His chest was beginning to feel as if it would burst; darkness was growing at the back of his head. He was good at holding his breath but he had not had a chance to inhale deeply as he normally would before diving; any minute now his body would make a desperate effort to breathe in and water would choke him. The water was as clear as glass; he could see the violet sky and the blazing sun, and at the fringes of vision the grass and trees of the riverbanks.

He saw something small, pink and flickering from the corner of his eye. It skipped in from the side and bounded up onto the motionless Jack's shoulder, where it appeared to whisper, or perhaps shout, in his ear. Moving with idiot slowness, the Jack on the stone bent forward and dipped his hand into the water. Drowning Jack found that his own hand could make a corresponding motion. He grabbed the other Jack's hand for dear life and was pulled up.

The next moment he was crouching on the stone again, looking at a reflection under the water and dry as a bone. The current began to flow again and the reflection broke up and was swept away.

'What was _that?_' There was a very slight weight on his shoulder. He turned his head to look and found the pink wish fairy perched there.

'It's lucky for YOU the owl told me you were here! And he didn't even know I knew you, he was just passing it on as gossip,' she said. 'You mustn't _touch_ things like that. I thought you might have learned a lesson about just shoving your hands into things without precaution.'

'You are the same fairy who was imprisoned by the gargoyle?' he asked. 'You have saved me from my own folly for a second time. I am much in your debt.'

'You surely are,' she said. 'Since you wasted my wish, I'm of absolutely no account. It's nice to no longer be pursued by people who would make bad wishes, but there's nothing special about me any more! Still... I give you credit for phrasing the wish to help both of us. It was unselfish of you.'

'I am not doing well in fairyland,' he said, chastened. 'I think I am alert to its dangers and then find I have walked straight into one all the time telling myself how alert I am.'

'Maybe you could use a native guide,' she suggested. 'I could help you. Goodness knows I have nothing better to do. What are you doing here anyway?'

'I have come to take back a child that was stolen.'

'Oh boy,' said the fairy. She put two fingers in her mouth and whistled sharply. The owl, which had been watching them from the last tree before the riverbank, fluttered over to join them, settling on Jack's other shoulder. It was surprisingly light for such a large bird, but its claws dug in quite hard.

'He's here to take back a child that was stolen,' the fairy told the owl. 'How do you rate his chances?'

'Better than some I've seen,' the owl said, with a man's voice. 'I've been watching him since he got here. If it was my old place I would expect him to at least reach the oubliette. Is it your brother or your sister?'

'Neither,' Jack said. 'I am the child's "goodfather," here on behalf of her grieving parents.'

'Oh, so it was a direct steal and switch, then - no-one said anything about wishing the child gone?'

'Certainly not. She is a much-loved baby.'

'No mind games, then,' the owl said, sounding disappointed. 'Some people just don't _care_, do they? Where's the psychology? I bet she stuck an ugly old fairy in the crib, as if anyone would be fooled, didn't she? And no-one appeared to give you a challenge, I suppose. There were no snakes or crystals or dramatic entrances with wind and thunder. No pride in her work.' He ruffled his feathers and clicked his beak contemptuously.

'Well, she means to _keep_ the baby,' the fairy said, leaning her elbows casually on Jack's head the better to talk over it. 'Which you never did, did you? All that business about turning him into a goblin or maKing him your heir was just a bluff.'

'True,' the owl admitted. 'If things had gone according to plan the lady and I certainly wouldn't have wanted a dribbly little baby cramping our style. _He_ could have gone home the moment she'd agreed to my terms. Everyone would have been happy! But she turned on me, she just absolutely turned on me. Talk about ingratitude. I told her, I said I move the stars for no-one, but did she care? Difficult little madam. I'm not a mind-reader, am I? I did everything it looked as if she wanted!'

'Yes,' said the fairy, with the air of someone who has heard a rant so many times that she has memorised all the points where she could get a word in edgewise, 'and now you're stuck in the form of an owl and you've lost your kingdom and it's all most unsatisfactory, I know, I know. Do you want to help with this? With your insider knowledge you might be quite useful.'

'Are you kidding? The Queen would pluck me from a height. I'm pathetic enough as a bird; I have no wish to be a bald one.' The owl shuddered.

'Any advice you could offer would be much appreciated,' Jack said hopefully.

'I didn't tell you this, right? You never saw me. Number one, take nothing for granted. Like what a girl apparently wants, hah. Number two, don't eat or drink anything you're offered.'

'I have been warned of the second thing,' Jack said.

'Had I finished? No. Number three, keep hold of something that reminds you of what you're meant to be doing here. It's all too easy to get sidetracked.'

'I have learned _that_ by experience,' he said sadly.

'You have an unattractive habit of interrupting. Number four, just because people act powerful doesn't mean they have real power. Look behind the curtains, look behind the words. Things are not always what they seem. Well, that's really number one all over again. Anything else? Oh... I suppose it might be useful if you remember not to give anyone your real name. Some people get away with that but I've always been against it, myself. "Jareth" is a nice name, if you're shopping for one.'

'He's already calling himself Jack, which I think is a much nicer name,' the fairy said.

'It has the virtue of brevity and anonymity, I suppose,' said the owl haughtily. 'Useful if he doesn't want to be remembered. I'd better be going. You two already smell of danger. I wouldn't let anyone see me with him if I were you, Pink.' He took off from Jack's shoulders with a powerful silent flurry of wings and glided away.

'Will you get into trouble for helping me?' Jack asked the pink fairy. 'I would not want that.'

'It'll be fine,' she said confidently. 'I'll hide in your hair.' She yanked out the pin in his topknot.

'People keep _doing_ that,' Jack complained. 'I do not like it.'

'But you look so pretty with your hair down,' she chuckled, making herself comfortable.

'I am not trying to look pretty!' He put the hairpin away ruefully. At least he had a companion now who might really be helpful. He got to his feet and made his way over the rest of the stepping stones.

'What!'

'What is it?' The fairy stuck her head out over his ear.

'The castle is further away_ again!'_

'Were you trying to get to the _castle?'_

'It seemed a logical place to look for the Queen.'

'Oh, no, that's a red herring. It's lucky for you that you met me. Go thataway.' She pulled on his ear to turn his head.

'But that is just forest.'

'Listen to the fairy, Jack.'

'You could be deceiving me too, of course.'

'If I was, you wouldn't be thinking that. Go on. Giddyup.' She gave him a little nudge with her foot.

'I am not a horse, you know.' He started out in the direction that she indicated, though.

'Okay, then - hut-hut-hut.'

The forest, once you had gotten through the scrub at its fringes, was like a cathedral of trees, so tall that you could overbalance craning your neck to see their tops.

'It did not look this big from the outside,' Jack said.

'Who says it is?' the fairy muttered. 'You have some split ends, by the way.'

'Does the Queen live in here?'

'The last I heard, her court was at the heart of the forest.'

'What is the Queen like?'

'Well, men usually think she's beautiful. How exactly you see her might depend on her mood at the time, or just on what you're expecting her to look like. What she's _like_... she's a very unhappy lady. She has had problems with her husband for a long time, and she can't seem to get over it.'

'What sort of problems? Is he unfaithful?'

'Oh, they both always were. But one day he just seemed to stop loving her. Before that, they both cheated and fought with all their might, but they always still _loved_ each other.'

'I think I will never understand other people's marriages.'

'So I think she steals babies because she hopes_ they'll_ love her. But of course they don't because she just spoils them, and turns them into fairies, and no-one's less affectionate and grateful than a spoiled fairy. And then she just does it again, the silly moo. Jack? Why are you stopping?'

He was standing with his head turned to one side, looking away between the trees. Pink pulled on his ear to try to get his attention, which failed, and then looked where he was looking. Someone had apparently left a feast spread out on a table improbably set in a slight clearing a little to their left. She recognised it as the type of glamour designed to look like whatever food the onlooker liked most. Apparently Jack was dying to eat a vast amount of artfully presented seafood, rice and noodles. True, the food did look pretty. It was probably just dead leaves and mushrooms. Pink looked at Jack's face. It was sad how eager and happy he looked. Still, some people were just fools for glamour. She heard his stomach gurgle loudly. Well, also this type of illusion worked particularly strongly on people who were feeling hungry.

'Hey. Hey! Jack.' She gave him a slap across the face, which he ignored as he began to walk towards the table. She considered trying to force his hand onto his sword, but that would put her far too close to the touch of iron for comfort, and anyway, you could feel the spells on that sword a mile off. She wouldn't have risked touching it with a bargepole. Yanking on his hair also had no effect. He was getting closer to the table. As he extended his right arm towards it, the overlapping front of his odd white coat-thing shifted slightly, and the strong odd whiff of some kind of human food came to her nose.

'Well, I suppose it's time to get to know you better,' she muttered, and dove down the front of his clothes.

Jack was on the verge of taking a bite of what looked like the platonic maki roll when the driest, most tasteless thing he had ever had the misfortune to ingest was shoved into his mouth. He choked back into full consciousness to find that an angry pink fairy was force-feeding him an oatcake. The table of wonders was spread with nothing but leaflitter and unhealthy-looking fungus. The disappointment, or possibly just the oatcake, brought tears to his eyes.

'There! Eat that if you're hungry, but please, don't be any more of an idiot than you have to.'

'Um fworry.'

'You're a nice man, but my experiences with you so far lead me to believe you're not that clever.'

'I am not good with subtle deceptions. I think I must have an excessively trusting nature.'

'Don't worry about it,' she said. 'I won't let you walk into any really obvious traps. Any _more_ really obvious traps, I mean.'

After a few minutes' further walk into the forest, they came to a very strange sight, a wall of wood. Not planks or posts, but apparently living wood covered by bark, stretching as far as the eye could see to either side. If this was a treetrunk, it must the the largest in the world. Only the slightest curve was visible. Seeing the top of the tree was right out. Set into the wall were two doors, each guarded by a gnome. They looked truculently at Jack as he approached.

'I have come to see the Queen,' he told them. 'There is urgent business between us.'

They exchanged glances. 'Right, well,' said the one on the left. 'One of these doors does lead to the Queen's rooms. The other one leads to certain death.' His friend on the right made a spooky 'oooOOOooo' noise. 'You have to ask us which one to go through, and one of us always tells the truth, and one of us always... urk...' He did not finish the sentence because Jack's sword was at his throat.

'I know this one,' Jack said brightly. 'You will _show_ me which door leads to the Queen, or I will make a hole in you. And if you are thinking of trying anything sneaky, please do bear in mind that you will be walking through the door ahead of me.' He heard a low, impressed whistle from somewhere in his hair. 'Well, I do_ learn.'_

As Jack proceeded along the silk-draped hallway to the Queen's presence, there was a constant stream of whispered advice from the region of the back of his neck. A lot of it was simply etiquette.

'Pink, I do know how to behave at court. My father is an emperor.'

'I'm just nervous. _I've_ never been in here before. Maybe you should try to flirt with her a little.'

'Firstly I do not want to, and secondly I would not know how.' He parted a set of curtains and passed through. Evidently there was some sort of soundproofing magic about them, because as soon as they were on the other side their ears were filled with a terrible shrieking.

'What's that?' Pink squeaked. 'Is it an alarm?'

'It can only be one thing,' said Jack, grinning. 'I recognise the family lung capacity. Magrat is still herself, at any rate.' The shrieking was coming from directly beyond the next set of curtains. Jack took a centring breath and Pink hid herself more deeply in his hair as he stepped through.

The Queen's throne room looked remarkably like the inside of a walnut, although vastly larger. There was clear passage up the centre but on either side of this space were throngs of dazzlingly dressed fairy courtiers, all with their eyes on the throne and the Queen who sat there. Just to her left was an immense red plush cushion on which sprawled Magrat, dressed in incomparable richness of cloth of silver, with her tiny fists clenched, her face red as beetroot, her eyes slits and her mouth a gaping hole, screaming for Scotland. She looked very much her mother's daughter. The Queen was trying to lounge elegantly, with her delicate chin in one slender hand, but it was clear that the noise was setting her nerves on edge.

She was, indeed, fabulously beautiful, but as a small precaution Jack had slipped his sword out of the sheath a fraction and was pressing the cold blade between thumb and finger. This gave him a constant slight ache behind the eyes but seemed to keep his head clear. He observed that the Queen's face was too smooth, that there were no natural shadows or lines about her, that her mouth was too small and her eyes too large, putting her features into almost mantid proportions. Everyone but Magrat turned to stare at him and there was a startled murmur of voices. He spoke clearly, cutting across the hum.

'Queen of Fairies, I have come from the Highlands to bring home the child you have taken. It is beneath the dignity of a Queen to steal. You dishonour yourself and your nation with these abductions. Give her to me and there will be no trouble.'

'What right have _you_ to come after her?' the Queen asked scornfully. Her voice was like bells made of ice. 'You are not her father or brother, and she is too young for you to be in love with her.'

'I have the right of a goodfather. Your majesty, I pity the loss that has driven you to these deeds, but it does not give _you_ the right to other people's children.'

Her eyes narrowed. 'You have a lot of nerve to pity a Queen.'

'I have seen an emperor reduced to slavery. The mighty are as vulnerable to reversals of fortune as the poor, and it is a hard heart that cannot pity them.' He fixed his gaze on hers. 'It is a poor heart, though, that pities itself.'

'What do you hope to achieve by coming here and insulting me?'

'Nothing I have said was intended as an insult. I hope simply to take the child home.' He approached nearer to the throne. 'There is no good reason to continue like this.'

'Do you think your sword protects you?' she asked, with a flicker of amusement. 'Men do set a lot of store by their silly little _swords.'_

'It is helping me to concentrate.'

'Oh yes?' Her eyes flicked away from his, but he refused to follow her gaze. He wondered, though, if he should have, because her expression changed quite markedly as she stared over his shoulder, her eyes widening and her lips turning bloodless.

'What are _you_ doing here?' she asked.

'Crapcrapcrapcrap' muttered Pink, out of sight.

'There is somebody behind me, isn't there?' Jack asked her under his breath.

'It's the King.' The courtiers to either side were, after some puzzlement and nudging, dropping into low bows and curtseys. Jack could feel the floor gently trembling beneath him as someone immensely heavy walked up the aisle. The ache behind his eyes worsened as the King drew nearer; where the fairy women had been enchanting, the King was repellent, jabbing at his impulse of fight or flight. He remained where he was. The situation had just moved onto a level where he had very little expertise. Rather than hoping to reason with or threaten the Queen, he began to consider plans for simply grabbing Magrat and maKing a run for it while the King and Queen had some sort of marital row.

An immense, dark presence was passing him to the left. He let his eyes slide over and up to take in the figure, shadows clinging about it in spite of the glowing artificial light of the throne room. The King was a beast from the waist down, with the legs of a vast cloven-hoofed animal, and dark, angular antlers sprouted from his lofty head. His face was handsome in a harsh, rough-cut way; there was something fear-inducing in his eyes.

'What do you want?' the Queen demanded. 'You can't simply walk in here after all this time without an explanation.' There was an awful struggle in her face between hope and anger.

The King extended one apishly long arm and pointed to Jack. 'I will take him off your hands,' he said.

'What for?' she asked, instantly suspicious. 'What do you want in return?'

'I want the samurai himself. I have my own purpose which I do not intend to discuss.'

'Well, perhaps I have plans for him myself,' she snapped back.

'Oh? This will be Tam Lin all over again, I suppose?' the King smirked. 'No-one ever stays with you willingly, do they? You must always imprison them.'

'Shut up,' the Queen hissed. 'Why can you not leave me alone? After deserting me, why do you come back to be still more cruel?'

'Come on,' Pink muttered, tugging on the hair at the nape of Jack's neck rather painfully. 'Let's grab your baby friend while they're bickering.'

Jack was staring at the King, listening intently as he jeered at the Queen. His voice was deep and unfamiliar, but there was an echo in it, like another voice haunting it, that he knew only too well. And what flickered in his eyes was fire. Jack's eyes narrowed; he was certain now.

'Your majesty,' he said urgently, darting over and touching the Queen's arm. 'That is not your husband.'

'Ha, I wish,' said the King rudely. 'I'd like to be anything but her husband.'

'What are you talking about?' the Queen asked. Jack could see that she was an imperious and inconsiderate person, but he still felt sorry for her in the face of this verbal abuse. There were tears in the corners of her shimmering eyes.

'I recognise my enemy Aku. His evil power dominates the world outside, and _that_ is his foothold in fairyland. If your husband has become strange and cruel to you, this is why! It is not to be endured. I am sworn to destroy this monster.' He drew his sword, causing everyone present to flinch away. Magrat stopped screaming briefly, distracted by the shiny object. Flame flared about the false King's face, and Jack charged.

He was brought up with a choking jerk when the Queen seized his collar and threw him behind her.

'How DARE you, Aku!' she screamed. 'We had an ARRANGEMENT!' While Jack tried to gulp some air back into a very dented-feeling oesophagus, she grew to an immense height, crackling with angry energy, and flung herself at the dark figure, nails out.

'Don't be a hero,' said Pink. 'Just get the kid and get out. She's kicking his ass.'

Jack scrambled over to the cushion and gathered up the baby. She stared at him indignantly and drew breath to scream. Thinking fast, he popped the bottle with the teat into her mouth. Pink swarmed down over his shoulder to hold it steady as he ran for the door. Just as he reached the curtain the false King's shadowy head hit the wall and splashed horribly. On general principles he gave it a quick stab with the sword before making his escape. Behind him, he could hear an unfamiliar but unmistakably kingly voice trumpeting 'Dear! The spell is broken! You can STOP HITTING ME NOW!'

Jack ran for his life, and everything that saw him coming ran from his sword. The countryside blurred and shifted wildly around him, losing all resemblance to the terrain he remembered coming through the first time. But there was the stone circle, seeming to jounce wildly as he ran. He could hear a thunderous roar behind him, and from the urgent squeaks of Pink, looking back over his shoulder, suspected that there was some sort of armed host in hot pursuit. Elf-shot began to patter down around him as he dived through the nearest arch of stone, and then everything stopped with a bump.

It seemed to be a little while later that he woke up, lying in the lush, green, but rather damp grass just outside the stone circle in the Highlands. He was unhurt, although a few narrow rips in his kimono suggested that the fairy arrows had only just missed him. His sword was under his hand. And he could hear a baby gurgling happily. Turning his head, he found that Magrat was lying on her back kicking her little pink feet at the sun and the fairy dancing in the air for her amusement. There was another sound, too, a vibration, a regular rapid pounding in the ground beneath him. He lifted his head and looked downhill, where the Scotsman, his wife, and what looked like half their clan were running full tilt up the mountainside to meet them, with wild whoops of celebration.

Everything was quickly settled and explained, once the initial welter of hugging, kissing and very loud laughing was behind them. The changeling had vanished from the cradle, with one loud swear-word, at which point they had known everything must be all right and stampeded joyfully. Magrat was to have her naming as soon as possible, with extra protective charms. Pink was invited to be a fairy godmother, a prospect she welcomed as, she explained, it meant a new magic wish quota. There was going to be lots of drink for everyone and probably dancing and comic recitations.

Within a very short time Jack was standing to one side of an altar that could probably not hold any more flowers if it tried, waiting for his part in a ritual which he watched with tolerant bemusement. In order to save time and get to the party sooner, the witch and the druid were amalgamating their 'mumbo-jumbo' and hardly bumping into each other at all. Magrat was passed from hand to hand, anointed, sprinkled, dusted off and generally kursened to within an inch of her life.

'Brak brak brak brak, brak ak brak?'

'He says, who comes forth as goodfather, tae protect an' guide the bairn a' her life, tae be there when her parents cannae?' the witch translated. 'Ye say yer name,' she added in a helpful undertone.

Jack hesitated, wondering if for something this official and important, his first-given name was more appropriate. However, would it not cause confusion if he trotted out a name by which no-one present knew him?

'He's no sure' said a voice at the back, provoking a roar of general laughter.

'Let's remind him!' the Scotsman bellowed. 'Who comes forth as goodfather, an' is me best friend, an no' a softie wha'ever annyone says, an' despite his dubious sartorial choices is all right wi' US?'

Jack put his fingers in his ears as a precaution, but still heard every voice in the clan roar back, 'SASSENACH JACK!'


End file.
